The Curing Season

by Leslie Wells

  —You makin out okay? she asks.

  I nod again. I wave my arms to indicate how much I appreciate the bounty. The tomatoes have heated up in the sun and smell deliciously red.

  —I’ma be goin. See you down at the waterhole, Nita says, and waves her arm as she walks off.

  Only after she is gone does it occur to me that I didn’t warn her about coming here. The thought of what Aaron might do if he saw a colored person in our yard is too frightening to contemplate for long. The next time I see her at the creek, I will tell her not to come here, ever again.

  I touch the egg to see if it has cooled enough for Joshua to eat, then motion to him that it is fine. He sits at the table and scoops half of it into his mouth, hastily chewing, then an expression of remorse comes into his eyes.

  —Want some, Mama? he asks.

  I shake my head, no.

  —Can I have one ’morrow?

  I smile a hopeful yes. Maybe I can find a way to get a little feed for the hen so that she will produce more. I dip a cup into the bucket and give him water, which he gulps, spilling it down his shirt. As I go to clear away the plate, he asks,

  —Why Tyree’s mama can talk?

  I hesitate, then take the plate to the sink and pour some water from the pail over it. Wiping my hands on my apron, I turn to meet Joshua’s questioning eyes. I put my hands on his shoulders and kiss the top of his head, his forehead, his nose, his silky-soft cheek. Someday I will make it up to you, I tell him silently.

  • • •

  To my dismay, Aaron comes stomping back in around dusk. At least he hasn’t been drinking, as far as I can tell. Luckily I have gotten dinner started, just in case he showed up. A pot of spoonbread is heating on the stove, and I have boiled some creasey salad with a dab of lard we had left. I have sliced some of Nita’s beautiful tomatoes, hoping Aaron will not ask where they came from. This is all we have for supper, unless he’s brought something home, and it doesn’t look like he has. Lately he’s been stealing from the local farmers, a few ears of corn, a head of cabbage. I dread the day he’s caught. Not for his sake, nor for my embarrassment, but for the way he’ll take it out on me, long after the self-satisfied farmer has gone to sleep.

  Aaron pulls out a chair as I set the plates on the table. Joshua is playing with some sticks on the floor, and I pull him up and gesture for him to sit on his stool. Aaron dishes out spoonbread, wincing as his thumb touches the hot side of the pot. He serves himself over half of it, leaving small dribs and drabs behind for me and Joshua. Then he dumps creasey salad on his plate.

  The sight of him gnawing at his food like a hungry animal sickens me. I serve Joshua and then take a spoon of each for myself. I don’t feel hungry now, even though I could feel my stomach rumbling while I was cooking it. Aaron finishes his last gulp and rears back in his chair. I look at him expectantly. He seems to be in an expansive mood, but I know that can change in an instant.

  —Old man Peel’s barn burned down last night, he announces, pulling a straw out of his overalls bib and poking at his teeth. —Two of his kids were rolling cigarettes and caught the place on fire. Like to have burnt up all his cows. Every bit of his equipment is gone, new haymow, tractor.

  I stare at him, wondering why he is telling me this. I haven’t met any of the Peels; they don’t go to our church and I haven’t been by their place. It’s unlike Aaron to make idle conversation with me.

  —Old man Peel hasn’t whipped his kids yet, Aaron says, chewing hard on the straw. —Burnt up his whole livelihood, and they aint got beat. Everybody feels it’s a bad example to the children around here. If it was mine, you’d best believe their hindends would be tanned.

  I gulp and look sidelong at Joshua, who is cringing on his stool, eyes wide. I hate for him to have to hear Aaron talk like this. Aaron knows it, and that’s why he’s doing it. I rise slowly from my chair and shrug. I gesture at the bowls, to ask if he wants more. Aaron stands up abruptly.

  —No, I don’t want more of your slop, he says.

  I watch him carefully as he goes out of the kitchen and into the backyard. At times like this I can’t read his mood. It’s hard to tell what he’s up to when he isn’t drunk; in fact, since we’ve moved here, I’ve received some of my worst beatings when he was sober. His aim is a lot better then, and he doesn’t fall asleep in the middle of it, the way he sometimes does when he’s drinking. I’d better try to get Joshua to bed early tonight in case the worm turns in him. There’s no telling what our child has heard from his little room upstairs, what he’s imagined. But I want to keep him from actually witnessing it for as long as possible.

  I wash out the dishes. The spoonbread sticks to the bottom of the pot and leaves a scum in the sink that is hard to scrub off. Aaron is sitting on a rock in the yard, whittling a stick. The bark falls away in long curls, and I can imagine the wood whining with every stroke of the knife. I wish he would use his carving skills to make a pull toy for Joshua, but I haven’t steeled myself to ask for this yet. It would be so easy for him to do for Joshua, to give him a word, make him a gewgaw, take him fishing occasionally. Once Joshua asked him to play chase with him in the yard, and Aaron actually ran around in circles with him for a while. But ever since my transgression with the government lady he largely ignores the boy, only commenting to me on what I’m doing wrong with his upbringing.

  I gather Joshua in my arms, pointing upstairs. He kicks a little in protest, but not too much. My boy is such a good little fellow. I kiss the top of his head as I blunder up the narrow, tilting steps with him. He hugs me tight, his breath warm on my neck. I breathe in the scent of his hair, the fresh outdoors smell clinging to it. I wish I could protect him from everything bad in the world.

  I put him down and strip off his clothes, changing him into his nightshirt. He clasps his hands together and says a prayer, a garbled version of what they teach the children at church.

  —Now I layme, downa sleep, praytha lorda, soula keep.

  His eyes are open over his folded hands, looking for my approval. I smile at him and hold him close. I feel his little heart beating wildly in his chest. I never realized children’s hearts beat so fast, until I had him. I allow myself one more kiss and then lift him onto his pallet. Even in the heat, he likes to have something over him. He pulls the ragged quilt up to his chin and smiles at me sleepily.

  —Good night, Mama.

  I pat him on the arm and go back down the steps.

  I hope so, baby.

  Aaron is still somewhere outside when I get to the kitchen. I stir the ashes in the stove to get rid of any remaining cinders and take the Bible off the shelf. It is the only book Aaron allows in the house. Funny how, way back when, I had a vision of him and me reading the same books, then discussing them afterward in a genteel, intellectual manner. I guess this went along with the gingham-dress-three-children-sitting-around-the-kitchen-table notion. I almost have to laugh at that now.

  I open to Corinthians, to the passage for tomorrow’s sermon, which they post the Sunday before:

  Even unto this present hour we both hunger, and thirst,

  and are naked, and are buffeted,

  and have no certain dwellingplace;

  And labour, working with our own hands

  I feel so sleepy I can barely keep my eyes open. The light from the window is dying and Aaron doesn’t let me use the kerosene lamp unless he is here; he says why waste oil if you don’t need it. I’m squinting at the words and they blur together. I tell myself I will shut my eyes only for a few minutes.

  I have a curious dream. I’m in a pasture, and there are two horses, a white mare and a roan. The roan approaches the mare and I see his member protruding from its furry sheath, a long slithery thing, shockingly pink. As he rears up on the mare’s hindquarters it grows even longer, until it hangs almost to the ground. The mare whinnies but I cannot hear it, I just see her mouth open and her long teeth extend. The roan manipulates his legs somehow to get the mare to accommodate him. She whinnies aga
in, whether in pain or in pleasure, I cannot tell. Then she falls writhing on the ground, and I wake up.

  The Bible has slipped down between my legs and a piece of paper is hanging out of the seam of the cover. I wonder what this could be. I stand up and look out the window. I don’t see Aaron in the failing light, so I unfold the paper.

  M. Coombs

  1st group

  S. Jones

  Secd grp

  Tho. Jones

  Secd grp

  C. Wellridge

  First

  maybe

  T. Wellridge

  2

  Cat. Jones

  2

  L. Thrush

  first

  may be

  Ed Bean

  first

  L. Willis

  lst

  maybe

  P. Bailey

  lst

  H. Teeter

  2nd

  lst group—11 pm. Meet at Boggs Rd.

  2nd—11:30 Under Bridge.

  I puzzle over the list. These are the names of the men he meets with, but they seem to be planning something beyond their usual drinking party. It doesn’t make much sense, but I am too tired to think about it anymore. I slip the paper back into the Bible’s seam and clump upstairs to sleep.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The spoken language is a lovely thing. The way an r curls off your tongue, a languishing l. I used to love the word ripe, saying it. Ripe tomatoes. Ripening corn. Lovely lilting words. How I miss them. I never appreciated being able to talk, back when I could. I took it for granted. I think I miss the talking more than the hearing. What I heard was so often ugly and mean. But talking, you can express what you are thinking. You can explain. You can read out loud. You can whisper. It was heavenly to talk to Nita the other day at the creek, but how often will I be able to do that? When the warm weather passes, it will be too cold to go there. Perhaps there is a barn where we can meet and let the children play.

  The hardest thing is not being able to speak to Joshua. I see as he gets older that there are so many questions he will have that I won’t be able to answer. And I worry about his speech. He seems to be learning to talk, but will he have problems later on? Just this morning as I was getting him dressed for church, he said,

  —why sun come up ina sky, Mama?

  I tried to show him the sun and the moon with my hands, how one comes up when the other goes down, but I don’t know if he understood. It is frustrating not to be able to talk to him. But if I speak to him in private, I fear that Joshua would say something about it to Aaron, not realizing the consequences. After all, he is only three years old. So I gesture and hum, and do not speak to my child.

  I lift my arms to pull on my worn shift, and grimace. Aaron came home drunk last night and lit into me with a fury. It turns out he’d been at another of those meetings; I pieced this together from his mumblings. Then he began ranting about something involving his mother, calling her names and hitting me all the while. Often now when he is drunk, he seems to believe that I am she. I used to feel sorry for him, but now he is so wicked to us that I cannot.

  This morning I have bruises the color of squashed pokeberries up and down my ribs, and a sharp ache in the middle of my back. I remember him leaning all his weight into me with his knee, so that must be why I’m hurting there. I manage to pull the dress over my aching body, and see in dismay that it is torn down the front. I’ll have to wear my apron over it; there is nothing else to do. This is the only outfit I have that can pass muster in church, and that only barely.

  Despite his condition last night, Aaron manages to pull himself out of bed and dress in time for this morning’s service. I follow him down the road, holding Joshua’s hand, wondering at the mind of a man who would beat the mother of his child to a pulp on a Saturday evening, then march off to Sunday services the following morning. But he is probably more like the others than I would imagine.

  The sun is already high in the sky, and the bright light makes little needles of pain behind my eyes. Aaron is always careful not to bruise my face on Saturdays, so I assume that if he hit me about the eyes, it doesn’t show. I doubt he’d let me go to church if my bruises weren’t hidden from view.

  My father used to hit and kick me and Sibby, but he took the worst of it out on Mother. He used to hit her with his fists, then swear at her because he was out of breath from the exertion of beating her. As a child, I never had the strength to fight him. But I often wondered why Mother never fought back, since she was an adult, and stronger and bigger than we were.

  Now I know why. For one thing, you get hit harder if you fight back. The slightest resistance to the blows brings them raining down even more fast and furious. And with Aaron, I’m afraid to infuriate him more because I’m afraid he will kill me, and then who would take care of Joshua? I have to survive for my child. I can’t bear to think what would happen to him if I weren’t around.

  We make slow progress down the road, with my bad foot and aches and pains. Aaron strides ahead of us, looking fresh as a daisy. It is amazing, the transformation in him on Sundays. When he sings the hymns, at times he looks almost angelic.

  We reach the church, go up the stairs and into our pew. Two women seated in front of us turn to look, then smile and whisper among themselves. I doubt my own perceptions lately, but I have a feeling they are saying something about me. I duck my head in shame. In the past, I never had new clothes to wear, but at least I was always clean and neat. Now I cannot even lay claim to those attributes.

  Joshua wiggles and squirms throughout the opening devotions and hymns. I seat him on the other side of me, away from Aaron, but Aaron still glares at him across me. I give Joshua one of the funeral parlor fans to play with, and he amuses himself with it for the time being. Aaron sings out lustily, his mouth opening widely with the words.

  —how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me

  I once was lost, but now am found

  Was blind, but now I see

  The singing is so loud that I can hear a faint echo of it. I used to love the singing in our church at home. Esther Richardson used to warble the most beautiful solos, and the men’s choir would sing a rollicking version of Oh When the Saints about every other Sunday night. Then I recall the hymns we sang with the colored women, handing tobacco under the huge old oaks. I glance over at Aaron again, settling himself on the pew for the offering prayer. His Bible is on his lap. Suddenly I remember the piece of paper folded into the seam. What on earth is he up to?

  The women on the pew in front of us turn and glance back at me again during the prayer. Then one whispers something to the other. Now I’m sure they are talking about me. Tears spring to my eyes, and I swipe at them quickly so they don’t leak down my face. Why do I suddenly care about them, when I’ve gone so long without caring what anyone thinks? I’m so far away from any other human being, except Joshua. Why should I care if some nervy women want to whisper about me?

  The prayer is finally over and the offering plate is passed. No one has much to put in it; a penny here, a nickel there. Aaron doesn’t even take the plate this Sunday; I guess he spent his last red cent on his liquor last night. It’s almost getting to where I resent anything he gives the Lord, anyway; why should He get our few pennies instead of our having food to eat?

  There is a disturbance in the front pew, and a woman drags a little boy screaming wide-mouthed out of the church. This is one time I’m glad I cannot hear, because it would grate on my nerves to have to listen to his screams as she lights into him outside. The women of this congregation seem to thump on their children as hard as the men do.

  Now comes the time for the announcements. I watch closely so I can comprehend what is being said. Preacher Moody reads from a list: Betty Atkinson is still doing poorly, Maybelle Walmsley is on the mend. Carl DeWitt has thrown out his back, let’s pray he gets better soon. Clem and Myra Franks have just had a baby, seven pounds, eight ounces, delivered Saturday morning. Baby and mo
ther are doing well, praise the Lord.

  With this announcement, heads turn and tongues start wagging. Mrs. Peale at the piano stares straight ahead with her hand barely covering her wide open mouth. I know what they are saying: Clem and Myra just got married seven months ago. On the pew ahead of me, the women are counting on their fingers. Seven months and a seven-pound baby. That means Myra was in the family way before they got married.

  Preacher Moody launches into his sermon, which I try to focus on but without much luck. Too much commotion is going on in the pews, too much whispering, for me to be able to watch his lips carefully enough. Heads bob together and then spring apart, blocking my view of the preacher’s mouth. It is a lesson about the Sermon on the Mount, which I’d like to see, but I cannot follow it. They are all gabbling about poor Myra Franks.

  I know what is going to happen next Sunday. The preacher will announce with a posture of great regret that Clem and Myra are moving their church membership to a fellowship in another part of the county. This is how things are done around here; they shame people into skulking and hiding. Even though they got married in time to right their wrong, that is not enough for this congregation. Myra and Clem will have to leave the community to be let alone in peace. I don’t know the Frankses; I have only seen them coming and going in church, but they seem nice enough. I think it is a shame that this young woman is going to have to start a whole new life because of one mistake.

  At last the sermon is over and a final hymn, Bringing in the Sheaves, is sung. This used to be one of Mother’s and my favorites, and I move my toes inside my shoes in time to what I perceive as the music. Joshua is about to squirm out of his seat, so I let him stand beside me and hold on to my skirt. Finally it ends and Aaron bustles up to the front of the church to stand with the other men, where he will shake hands with each and every member of the church, smiling like the cat that got the cream. You’d think he’d have given up on this church idea when he didn’t get any fine job offers, but he’s come to like the pat-on-the-back, you’re-one-of-us business with the other men. I can tell that it makes him feel important.